first from thinking of hers. Philip
Hayforth had certainly not more than an average share of human vanity,
but he did at last suspect, partly from an accidental circumstance which
had first drawn his attention to the subject, that he had created in the
heart of the innocent Fanny a deeper interest than he had ever intended.
He was touched, grateful, but at first grieved, for _he_ "could never
love again." But the charm of being loved soon began to work: his heart
was less desolate, his feelings were less bitter, when he thought of
Fanny Hartley, and began to ask himself if he were wise to reject the
consolation which Providence seemed to offer him in the affection of
this amiable and artless young creature. And when he thought of the pain
she might perchance be suffering on his account, all hesitation upon the
subject was removed at once. If she loved him, as he believed, his
conduct, it seemed to his really kind heart, had already been barbarous.
He ought not to delay another day. And accordingly that very evening he
offered his hand to Fanny Hartley, and was accepted with trembling joy.

Their marriage proved a happy one. Fanny was as amiable as she had
appeared, and in the conduct of the commoner affairs of life,
good-feeling with her supplied in a great measure any deficiency of
strong sense. Philip did perhaps occasionally heave a gentle sigh, and
think for a moment of Emily Sherwood, when he found how incapable his
wife was of responding to a lofty or poetic thought, or of appreciating
the points of an argument, unless it were upon some such subject as the
merits of a new dress or the seasoning of a pudding. But he quickly
checked the rising discontent, for Fanny was so pure in heart, and so
unselfish in disposition, that it was impossible not to respect as well
as to love her. In short, Philip Hayforth was a fortunate man, and what
is more surprising, knew himself to be so. And when, after twenty years
of married life, he saw his faithful, gentle Fanny laid in her grave, he
felt bereaved indeed. It seemed to him then, as perhaps, at such a time,
it always does to a tender heart, that he had never done her justice,
never loved her as her surpassing goodness deserved. And yet a kinder
husband never lived than he had been; and Fanny had died blessing him,
and thanking him, as she said, "for twenty years of happiness." "How
infinitely superior," he now daily and hourly thought, "was her sweet
temper and loving disposi